Half Past Noon

For the past month or so, most of my reading time has been devoted to exploring the world of Hellboy. (And yes, my friends are worried.) I’m fascinated by much of what Mike Mignola has crafted with this badass demonic hero: he’s funny, powerful, and consistently overcomes his doomsday destiny. That last part especially gets me. Hellboy is destined for absolute terror, and yet he is not bound by this “destiny.” It’s the kind of story only possible in a Christian world (just imagine the outrage it would give Sophocles and other ancient tragedians!), and I love watching it play out.

I’ll write more about what’s struck me in the comic books later; for now, I wanted to offer a few comments on the offshoot novels that I’ve managed to read so far.

First, I don’t think the three novels I’ve picked up (two by Christopher Golden—The Lost Army and Bones of Giants—and then The God Machine by Thomas E. Sniegoski) add anything of value to the Hellboy story. As Mignola notes in the introduction to The Lost Army, Golden has given Hellboy something of sex/relationship life; that is in my opinion their biggest contribution. Instead of sticking to the recurring themes and characters of the comic books, the novels depict a world full of demonic and otherworldly bad guys eager to tap into Hellboy’s power; they are wholly unrelated to the grand story that connects Mignola’s stories. The result is that the Hellboy myth is battered, scattered, and thinned out. It robs both the reader and the character of purpose, replacing it with cheap, worn-out formulas.

The comic books are wonderful because they don’t try to tell us every moment of Hellboy’s lives. What they offer is a simple ongoing storyline communicated in a series of stories that develop Hellboy’s character by focusing on his destiny and his wrestling with that. Each short story teaches Hellboy something new about himself (or, if he won’t listen, at least the reader). The novels, on the other hand, are little more than displays of just how good Hellboy is at destroying spiritual powers. But we already knew that, so why bother?

Second (and I’ll keep this very brief), the novels are poorly written. Especially Golden’s first two. Way too much information about what people are feeling or thinking, which really defeats the purpose of action and dialogue. If somebody is speaking angrily, you shouldn’t have to tell it to me like that: the words coming out of his mouth can communicate that emotion. Same goes for actions.

Third, the novels make a weakness of the stories in general very explicit: God is far too silent. Take this passage from The God Machine:

Accursed humanity.

The more he saw, the more his anger grew. Here was a species that did not deserve the wonders their Lord had bestowed upon them. Murder, poverty and war, the befouling of the planet itself; these were not the faithful creatures that the Almighty believed them to be. They were a blight, a pestilence, defying His wishes at every turn.

The Creator was blind to this, smitten by humanity’s supposed charms. With every passing millennium the angel watched, anticipating the call. He expected to hear the voice of his God, ordering the Destroyers forth from their murky prison and unleashing them upon His failure. How Qemu’el longed to see their cities crumble, the tortured faces of the human race turned up to the heavens in desperate prayer as the skies were turned to fire, and they were expunged from the world—a horrible mistake erased, never to be heard from again. (page 163)

If you’re going to write something like this—that is, describe a character’s violent anger toward God, his complaint about the Creator—then it becomes something that must be resolved by the end of the book. And yet, when Hellboy shows up to kick butt and keep humanity alive, resolution to this is nowhere to be found.

I’m not suggesting that every novel needs to be an explicitly “Christian” novel. However, if a character’s prime motivation is anger against God’s “blindness,” and that character is obviously evil and wrong, then the resolution (in this case, the declaration that God is not blind) needs to be just as obvious. God, of course, uses physical means to deal with evil men and evil powers. But then, it’s the writer’s job to acknowledge Who is actually in charge. Instead, Sniegoski offers a world where God is silent, inactive, the picture of a blind watchmaker observing how things are working out. Oh, and thank goodness for Hellboy, since we can’t thank God for him: where would we be without his self-sufficient, self-saving power?

This book was a disappointment. My impression coming into this novel was that Wood is an aesthetic critic, all-too-willing to skewer ideologically driven fiction. Even my own (albeit limited) exposure to Wood’s writing backed this assumption. His reviews are enjoyable primarily because he writes as one who loves to read and who loves stories. But The Book Against God (which is apparently a semi-autobiographical novel) is weighed down by so much philosophical dialogue that it becomes more of a treatise than a story.

Thomas Bunting (our narrator and central character) approaches all spheres of life through the lens of philosophy and abhors God. He is a sharp thinker, well-read, and completely unable to support himself. While his wife works all day, he sits at home smoking, reading philosophy, working on a secret Book Against God, and ignoring his already-seven-years-late Ph.D. thesis. He is a most unattractive hero, and as the last third of the book proves, he is one of the most despicable anti-heroes to ever make an appearance in fiction. No matter how much you agree with or hate God, you simply cannot like Thomas Bunting by the end of this book. His greatest and last crime is a dive into Onanism (in an attempt to prevent his wife from conceiving), and after this incident, he is completely unsympathetic.

The biggest fault of this novel is simply that Bunting is an inhumane character. He has no sympathetic traits, no good points. An incorrigible liar, you quickly learn not to trust his narrating, and his interactions with his parents are ungrateful and unfair. Sure, they may be imperfect parents and people, but they certainly do not deserve the rage he exhibits around them. Wood has given us a book about a wretch, someone whom no one can love, but to what end? This novel is (if anything) an argument for God, a proof of philosophy’s inability to stand by itself, a suggestion that atheists aren’t much different than screaming toddlers wreaking unrest in grocery stores. Moreover, there’s nothing to enjoy or learn here. This is a book I would never recommend to anyone, because it’s chiefly unnecessary—the only reason I picked it up and finished it is because I’m interested in Wood.

Wood is most famous for coining the term “hysterical realism,” a phrase applied to the verbose, bloated fiction of writers like Don DeLillo, Thomas Pynchon, and others. But I think it could just as easily be applied to this book. Its only lack in that category is length: a reader has only to suffer a mere 257 pages of intellectual refuse courtesy of Mr Bunting. But Bunting is certainly hysterical (most appallingly so at his father’s funeral) and, well, there is a certain tinge of realism here: I can’t see someone with Bunting’s ideals have a much better life. Perhaps this is a lesson about labeling; it is certainly not much of a lesson in fiction itself.

Before I retreat into what will probably be twelve days of post-Advent bloating (during which fifteen pounds will be distributed in all the appropriate places), I thought I’d fulfill one of those tired end-of-the-year clichés:

Top Five Fav Albums of 2008 (* – sample track)

#1 — Fleet Foxes – Fleet Foxes (*)
#2 — Vampire Weekend – Vampire Weekend
#3 — For Emma, Forever Ago – Bon Iver (*)
#4 — Heretic Pride – The Mountain Goats (*)
#5 — Consolers of the Lonely – The Raconteurs

Runner-up: The Midnight Organ Fight – Frightened Rabbit (*)

If I could suggest only one album worthy of a listen-through in one sitting, it would be the Fleet Foxes’ eponymous release. I could easily run out of suitable adjectives if I chose to write a full review (beginning with breath-taking and intricate, and other such hyperventilation). Check it out. Each of the other five albums stands on its own merits, regardless of personal taste. Vampire Weekend is breezily confident, witty, and impossible to dislike. For Emma and Heretic Pride may require a bit more attention, depending on one’s normal musical diet, but provide moments of excellent lyrical and musical satisfaction. And Consolers of the Lonely is just fun, even if you find Jack White to be an insufferable eccentric. I hesitated to mention Midnight Organ on account of the sometimes shocking (though not gratuitous) obscenities contained in the lyrics. But if you can stomach the stark verbal repulsiveness of some of the songs (I warned you), it’s an amazing album. I’m going to hazard the suggestion that this band writes songs straight out of Camus or Hemmingway, full of atheistic regret and Nietzschean compulsion to find some meaning in life. They would make excellent Christians. If only.

There are so many things about the 1970s that I feel the world could have done without: Richard Nixon, shag carpeting, the oil crisis, VCRs, and Swedish bands who play at Eurovision.

But of all the degrading elements of ’70s culture, the cuisine may be the worst. Check out this site.

Chicken Liver Bake. The “Frankfurter Spectacular.” Fluffy Mackerel Pudding. How about the delectable smoothie made of skim milk and orange pulp? Or the chaser, composed of water, sherry extract, and two beef bouillon cubes?

My, what fruity goodness!

HT: The Dreher.

P.S. Honey honey, hold me, baby, ah-hah, honey honey. You look like a movie star. But I know just who you are. And, honey, to say the least, you’re a dog-gone beast.

I’ve been revisiting the Criterion selection at the local movie rental store of late. I have a difficult relationship with foreign art house films, one in which I am continually reminded of my own American sensibilities when it comes to narrative and character arc. However, I have to say that the French can do existential drama better than anyone (the closest American cinema has come to genuine philosophy is old school film noir, in my opinion).

Last week, I saw Bresson’s Au hasard Balthazar, and then last night, Jean-Pierre Melville’s long-lost Army of Shadows, which was finally released in the US in 2006. While the former has some exquisite moments of pathos, it sometimes relies too heavily on Important Philosophical Ideas. Meviille’s film, on the other hand, manages truly to break your heart. Army of Shadows is about several members of the Resistance during the dark middle years of the Second World War. The opening shot is of a long column of German soldiers, devoid of personality or human feeling, marching through the Arc de Triomphe. In fact, all the German nemeses in the film are similarly unhuman — lacking in feeling, compassion, faith, and personality. This is not the result of poor scriptwriting; this is at the heart of the film. The title refers to the French Underground, who all adopt fake names and maintain a high level of secrecy, even with each other. Two brothers who both work in the Underground, often in close proximity, never realize that they are each fighting for the same cause, and therefore lose any true kinship they may have shared in the inconsequential past. There is a great deal of distance in this movie. And there is a corresponding emphasis on human trust (or lack thereof).

Perhaps the most heartbreaking scene in the whole movie comes when the protagonist, a Resistance commander by the name of Philippe Gerbier, and one of his associates kidnap a young agent who has betrayed the movement. They take him to an abandoned apartment where a newly-inducted member of the Underground has prepared a room for interrogation. But when they arrive, they inform the novice that they have no intention to interrogate. In order to protect the Resistance network, they must execute the traitor. What follows is the most affecting execution scene I have ever seen in a movie (and don’t even think to mention Braveheart in the same breath). In the empty apartment, the would-be executioners can hear children playing next door, and decide against shooting the traitor. So they search the house for a knife as the young prisoner cowers in the corner, helpless. There is no knife to be found, so Gerbier decides they must strangle him with a kitchen towel. Finally reaching a breaking point, the youngest of the executioners breaks down, saying that he has never done “this” before. The elder Gerbier replies, “It’s our first time, too. Isn’t that obvious?”

The fight in which the Resistance finds itself is no abstract battle of Freedom vs. Tyranny, nor even one for the honor of France. From what I recall, the only time you see the tri-colors of the French flag, it is associated with the corrupt Vichy government. (In this way, Army of Shadows is the counterpoint to the La Marseillaise scene in Casablanca, another great movie, but for entirely different reasons.)

In contrast to all the usual WWII clichés, which usually draw the conflict in terms of absolute good vs. absolute evil, Melville shows how humans cope with the absence of faith and comradeship. In order to survive in a world where you can trust no one, you have to forswear both friendship and kinship. If you have to hide your name from even those with whom you are most intimate, can you still claim your own personhood? In one scene, a Resistance fighter is threatened by his captors with an ultimate penalty: if he does not reveal his own true name, they will kill him and he will die anonymous, never able to reclaim his identity, never remembered, never loved or mourned.

In all this, Melville keeps asking, What makes us real, more than just vapor?

The moment of crisis strikes Gerbier when, like Camus’ Stranger, he faces his own execution. In the long, spacious dungeon of his prison, a Gestapo officer lines up a group of condemned prisoners (some of whom, unlike Gerbier, are innocent of any real crime), and points first to a machine gun at one end of the room, and then to the far wall at the other. He offers the prisoners a deal: if they can reach the far wall, they’ll be allowed to live until the next scheduled execution. When the other prisoners begin to sprint to the wall, Gerbier defiantly refuses to run. But when the bullets begin to land all around him, his legs propel him forward involuntarily (how he escapes, I won’t say). Later on, he is filled with self-loathing; how did the Gestapo officer know that, in the end, he would run for his life, just like the rest?

Why did he run? I think the answer runs counter to Gerbier’s initial self-accusation: it wasn’t just cowardice that made him flee — it was his essential humanity. Gerbier and the rest of the Resistance are placed constantly in situations which require them to act contradictory to anything they would have done before the war. They must set aside their humanity. They are transformed into murderers. They turn their backs on their own family. They are become mere specters of what they once were. But in that moment when Gerbier’s feet overrule his desire to prove the Gestapo wrong, he finds that he is still a person with real human desire and fear and — perhaps — even salvation.

* * *
For further reading, see the reviews of Roger Ebert and Anthony Lane.

I breathe a sigh of relief: Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich is a Cubs fan, not a Sox fan. I knew this in my heart, but I am glad to find yet another way to distance myself from the Dark Side of Chicago.

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them,
    for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
    luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true
     I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
     faces of women and children I have seen the marks
     of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer
     at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and
     say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so
     proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job,
     here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
     little soft cities;

Thank you, Chris, for reminding me of Sandburg’s brilliance.

In Numbers 22, YHWH tells Balaam that he should go with the Moabite leaders. Balaam obeys, leaving the next morning on his donkey. But YHWH quickly becomes angry that Balaam is going. This seems a little odd, why is YHWH ok with it, then angry the next day? One possible answer can be found in the story of Numbers 22.

As they are traveling, the donkey sees the angel of the Lord three times, and three times Balaam misses it. Three times the donkey steps aside, and three times Balaam gets angry at the donkey for not doing its job. Notice that Balaam is not by himself, or with only his servants, he is with the leaders of Moab. So the Moabite authorities are watching this series of events.

Now you have to wonder what this looked like to the leaders of Moab traveling along with Balaam. They were probably making jokes about what a moron this guy was and why Balak wants him. That is, until they heard his donkey start talking and saw the angel of the Lord with a sword in his hand. Apparently God had found something “contrary” in Balaam’s way, and this was the reason for YHWH’s anger at Balaam’s trip. While we don’t know precisely what provoked that anger, Balaam’s sudden inability to recognize the Lord is indicative of some effect of being with the Moabite companions. Balaam is hoofing it to meet Balak, and he’s doing so with the elite of the Moabites, at the Moabite King’s request. Suddenly he finds himself confronted by a talking donkey and an angel with a sword. Never mind the blind prophet ironies at this point, God thought it was necessary to utterly humiliate and nearly annihilate Balaam in front of the Moabite princes just to tell him “speak only the word which I tell you,” which He had already told Balaam in verse 20. This draws our attention to speaking only the word of the Lord.

There are many times when we find our presence being requested by Moabite princes. They want our approval, our help, our time. If we are living right, we will acquire good reputations for different gifts and skills. Sooner or later, someone who’s fighting the Church will want those gifts to aid their campaign. These people will be powerful. They will be famous. They will also be sneaky and used to trickery. They might be clients, governments, colleges, or even neighbors. The lesson of Balaam is this: do not forget that we are to speak only the words God puts in our mouths. His glory and fame, not Moabite approval, is what we are after. And this is much bigger than just our own sanctification and personal salvation; making sure than God’s words alone are in our hearts and on our lips protects the rest of the Church. Again learn from Balaam: God guards His people and will strike us down if we proceed in such a way that harms them.

Brian and I just came to the conclusion that baseball is what is driving our doubts about capitalism. Unlike almost every other major sport (which have their own problems, admittedly), baseball has no salary cap. And precious little revenue-sharing. Which is why a 290 pound man can make $160 million over the next 7 years.

Hank Steinbrenner, son of The Boss himself, on revenue-sharing: “That’s a system I don’t particularly like. It’s a socialist system, and I don’t agree with it. Does it work? It depends on your point of view. But is it right? Is it even American? I’d argue no on both of those points.”

Choice quote #2, from Brian Schlect himself: “Whiffle ball is legitimate. Um. It is rolled up within my family lore.”

I know I’m, like, way behind to be posting about this now. But hey – if you haven’t, you should read this. The reading is not family friendly; it is, however, also very good.

A few of you may have heard me talk about Liz Murray before. She was and will likely remain among the more significant friends that I have had. A very long time ago, she wrote me an email about smoking that mortified me at the time. Liz was smart and pretty and popular, and that she should start smoking seemed to be to be a bold injustice and a vicious contradiction. She talked about drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes outside of Starbucks during the cold winter months; she described watching the steam from her coffee mingling with her exhaled smoke with a religious – even deliberately liturgical – solemnity. » Read the rest of this entry «